


A Hands-On Approach

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Massage, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper would argue that slicing open a disease-ridden corpse is far preferable to a day spent at a spa. Her massage therapist would agree with her, even if she doesn't accidentally blow his cover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She really didn’t know what she was doing there. This wasn’t her idea of good time. But Molly Hooper was painted into a bit of a corner. When her friend gave her a spa gift certificate for Christmas, and revealed that she’d bought one for herself, too, so they could have a “Girls’ Day”, there really wasn’t a way for Molly to bow out gracefully.

Which was why, three weeks later, she found herself being ushered into the spa’s empty “Tranquility Room” ( _read: Waiting Room_ , Molly thought to herself) by a tall woman who hardly spoke above a whisper.

“Just have a seat and feel free to read a magazine and drink some detox tea while you wait. You’re friend—Georgiana, isn’t it?—has already been taken back for her first treatment. Someone will be along for you shortly.”

Molly managed to give her a small smile in thanks but was distracted trying to make sure her too small, spa-issued bathrobe covered all the important bits. The overstuffed chairs they’d outfitted the room with were a bit _too_ plush. She began mapping out in her head how she would stand back up when the time came. The goal was to reveal the least possible amount of flesh, and accomplish it as quickly as she was able.

 In other words, if she could avoid looking like a foal taking her legs for the first time and at the same time not flash a nipple or something of a more genital persuasion, it’d be a win in her book.

And why did she have to be naked, anyway? Her friend had signed her up for a facial and a massage, and Molly thought both could be accomplished well enough with her outfitted in some comfy pants and a t-shirt. Sure, the oils used in the massage would have to be nixed, but _Molly_ would be comfortable.

That was the purpose of this whole painful exercise. Georgie had noticed that each time she’d seen her in the past several months, Molly’s shoulders seemed to carry more and more tension. When she saw Molly fussing with a heat pack for her cramped muscles when they met up the first week in December, as Georgie put it, “Enough was enough.”

So here Molly was, feeling utterly miserable. She had never been the type for anything as frilly as a spa excursion. To her, the best form of relaxation was a book, a hot bath, and a double Grand Marnier. To think: Georgie could have avoided all of this expense if she had just gotten Molly a new, inflatable bath pillow.

Before she could get too comfortable (ha, ha), a young woman appeared in the doorway. Like all of the other spa employees Molly had seen so far, the woman wore unrelieved black with her long hair pulled back in a sensible plait. Her expression was one of studied boredom and she didn’t even bother to glance up from her clipboard as she read Molly’s name aloud, as if there were several other people in the room for her to weed through to find her charge.

Molly was tempted to look around her as if trying to spot this mysterious, absent “Molly Hooper,” but then felt guilty for even entertaining the thought. She managed to stand up without embarrassing herself and approached the woman.

“Hello. Are you ready for me?”

“Yes,” replied the spa technician, “Follow me please. I’m Victoria. I’ll be doing your facial today. Once we’re done with that, Alan will be in to do your massage.”

Victoria led Molly to a room that looked distressingly like a doctor’s examination room. Maybe the lighting was dimmer, but the heavy equipment, sterile sink, rows of bottles containing who-knew-what, and the padded bed in the middle of it all brought to mind every check-up, shot, and illness she’d ever had.

And here, she’d be even more exposed.

Yippee.

Molly stood frozen in the doorway, going over the exits she’d seen on her way to the room. There were only a few, but she could make it work. Now all she needed was a distraction.  Would faking a seizure be too extreme?

Before she could find out, however, Victoria turned back to her and cocked an impatient brow while she pulled back a corner of the bed’s covers.

“Well, come in then. Take off your robe and climb under the sheet here and we’ll begin.”

Sighing, Molly closed the door to the room, flung the robe off of her and made a mad dash for the bed, which she all but threw herself onto. She nearly slid off of the other side of the narrow mattress from the momentum of her approach, but managed to stop herself at the last second.

Once the warm sheet safely covered her, with its top as high as she could get it while still leaving her shoulders and arms exposed, she began practicing some calming breathing techniques.

It wasn’t that Molly was ashamed of her body or felt that the female form needed to be covered conservatively at all times. She had simply always been a shy, private person. She didn’t wander around the hospital women’s locker room naked, and she usually favored baggy clothing for the comfort that skin-tight clothes couldn’t offer. Hell, she didn’t even wander around her own _flat_ naked.

Although, that was a more recently developed reservation.

Whatever the case, voluntarily stripping down for the up-close scrutiny of some esthetician had never been high on her list of priorities.

Molly was startled out of her thoughts by Victoria quickly snapping a terrycloth headband over her head, yanking her long hair through, and the pushing the headband back up so that her hairline was covered.

 _Oh, this is restful,_ Molly though wryly to herself.

What proceeded this was sixty minutes of torture.

Oh, there were some nicer moments, like the warm water wash and the steam that was misted onto her face to “open the pores,” as Victoria had explained. Though, why that was necessary, Molly was unsure, as the same woman had five minutes before said that Molly had the largest pores she’d ever seen (from which she’d segued into a sales pitch about some dermatological wonder serum that would cure Molly of this vicious malady).

But the lovely steam was turned off abruptly, and  then Victoria came at Molly with an horrendous device that she called an extractor.

An apt name, it turned out.

Molly was not privy to any State secrets. She hardly knew any _personal_ secrets. But by the third time the extractor was pushed against her skin, she was ready to make some up.

Her eyes watered as Victoria wielded this tool of torment without mercy. This continued for some time, with the esthetician _tsk_ ing at the number of blackheads she encountered.

 Just as Molly was about to yell, “Alright, I’ll talk!” Victoria lowered her weapon and busied herself  rubbing some soothing balm or other over her prone client’s face. It did little to quell the stinging.

“Your face will be red for a some time. The extraction areas may swell up before they get better. Avoid using any makeup, as it could agitate the inflamed skin.”

Before Molly could comment that that might have been nice to know _before,_ as she had to go an important conference the next day, there was a soft knock on the door.

Victoria looked up somewhat excitedly.

“Just a moment,” she called to the door before she leered down at Molly.

“That’ll be Alan. He’s new but he’s already establishing himself as a favorite masseur. All of his clients so far have requested him when making their appointments for next time. You lucky thing. Your friend got stuck with Maribel, who just doesn’t quite do it for me, if you know what I mean.”

Smoothing a hand over her hair (which Molly didn’t feel like reminding her still had post-torture soothing balm on it), Victoria stood from her rolling stool and rushed over to the door.

She opened the door to the man waiting outside.

“’Lo, Alan,” Victoria greeted, in a suspiciously breathy voice, “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute, but I need to clean up. Go ahead and get started.”

“Thanks, Vicky. I’m a bit crunched for time. Busy day, you know how it is.”

Up to the point of Victoria’s greeting, Molly had been staring at the ceiling tiles, picking out patterns in the stylized texture, wondering vaguely if this was what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder felt like. At the sound of Alan’s baritone voice, however, her head snapped around to the man currently closing the door behind him as he came further into the room.

He’d gelled his curls into a tidy fashion off of his face, and was wearing the requisite black t-shirt and trousers. Beyond that, he’d done nothing to disguise himself.

Sherlock Holmes was Alan. Alan was _Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

She managed not to exclaim aloud with an undignified yelp, but it was close. For his part, he was either expecting to see her on the table or didn’t know what was coming, for he had not yet looked at her, and his face was rather impassive as he talked to Victoria.

Molly had last seen him two weeks ago. He came and went from her flat with no discernable regularity while he hunted down various informants and assassins linked to James Moriarty. He had once mentioned that he was spending a considerable amount of time in London, but she’d just assumed when he _was_ in London, he stayed with her.

The established existence of “Alan” would seem to indicate otherwise.

The both stood at the head of the bed, backs to Molly. Sherlock appeared to be waiting for Victoria to finish at the sink and cabinets, but she was apparently in no rush as she complained about the tedium of her job, not caring that one such “job” was listening to her every word.

“Alan” _hmm_ ed at appropriate intervals as Victoria chattered, but offered little other commentary. When she petered off after he failed to join in with her tinkly laugher (affected, Molly was sure, as she craned her neck to looked at them upside-down from the bed with narrowed eyes), he finally spoke again.

“I came here from another massage. Didn’t get a chance to see what I’m doing for this session; Orla just told me the room number. Can I see her forms?”

He tacked on a bashful smile at the last second, trying to look chagrinned.

“Certainly,” Victoria simpered, “Just a standard, Swedish massage for her, sixty minutes.”

“And her name is,” he flipped the clipboard around, “Molly….”

He stilled.

Then, very slowly, he turned to face the silent woman lying on the bed.

Molly found it was really hard and awkward to shrug affably when one was lying down, hyperextending her neck to look that the people standing above her. Especially when covered in nothing but a thin sheet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just not Sherlock's day...

Sherlock Holmes would agree with one thing the vapid spa tech said. This job was tedious. And it required so much _touching._ Unfortunately, desperate times called for desperate measures.

He’d initially shrugged if off when he got wind that a large, upscale spa in Kensington had a tidy money-laundering scheme going on. Sherlock rarely concerned himself with illegal activities if he wasn’t being paid to care. 

Still, he’d traced the funds’ destination out of bored curiosity one night in Molly’s flat while she put in overtime at the hospital. It was only after he found out that not only was its success the result of certain consulting criminal’s efforts, but that the owner of said spa was on Moriarty’s payroll for other undertakings, that Sherlock had changed his mind.

By the time Molly had arrived home that night, he’d already left, working on setting up a fake identity. It wouldn’t have done to have anything traced back to her. Mycroft Holmes had been gracious enough to do nothing more than quirk a brow at Sherlock as he handed his younger brother the falsified Licensed Massage Therapist documents he’d requested.

 “Alan McKenna” lived in a small walk-up not far from the spa. He’d come highly recommended by his previous employer, who was gutted when her top masseur decided to move on for career advancement opportunities. Getting hired on at the spa had been surprisingly easy, as the business had recently lost one of their other technicians (mysteriously, Sherlock learned).

As far as the practical aspect of this unsavory job, Sherlock had found all he needed to know about massage in online tutorials, low as that form of research was.

 All that remained, though perhaps most difficult, was getting over his distaste for having to come in physical contact with countless people each day. He found he was able to curb a lot of his discomfort by strategizing while he worked. It wasn’t completely successful, but it helped.

A week-and-a-half in on the job, he prided himself that he was starting to block out the serene pan flute music that was played on a constant loop from discreet speakers throughout the spa. The otherwise quiet atmosphere of the building at least wasn’t grating. Though some of the other employees _were._

Sherlock’s day had gone without remark so far or as well as could be expected. He had just suffered through a ninety-minute session with a man who talked throughout his entire hot stone massage about some extreme workout regimen he was doing. Sherlock’s eyes were a bit achy from rolling so much.

Fortunately, he thought to himself as he walked down the large building’s winding hallway, this was to be his last session of the day. Once done, he could go back to his temporary base and do some _real_ work, assessing some of the files he’s managed to sneak onto a flash drive while everyone else was on lunch.

The end of this endeavor could not come soon enough. Sherlock was nothing if not a creature of habit, and he missed the comfort of Molly’s cozy flat, the comfort of Molly’s sofa, and, most of all, the comfort of Molly’s presence. 

Of course, he also missed the comfort of 221b Baker Street, which was his ultimate goal, he reminded himself often.

Still, since he’d essentially moved in with the pathologist seven months prior, he found that they were moving toward something _._ What that _something_ was, he couldn’t say, and wasn’t sure he wanted to define it. But he found, more and more, that he looked forward to seeing her every morning when she stumbled out of her bedroom, staggering sleepily down the hallway toward the coffee he’d started brewing fifteen minutes before she awakened. That he’d memorized her varying work and sleep schedules was not something he dwelt upon.

Sherlock once again shrugged aside the weird pangs of homesickness that he felt were unnecessary and found himself standing outside of the door to one of the spa’s smaller treatment rooms, located in the  furthest corner of the building. While it made him feel a bit claustrophobic with its one exit, he reminded himself that there wasn’t much threat from the overindulged man or woman lying on the bed inside.  And so, he knocked.

He heard Victoria, one of the spa’s more asinine estheticians, call for him to wait a moment, so he schooled his expression into one of cheerful patience.

When she finally let him into the room—pitching her voice at a higher and breathier quality than was her natural speaking timbre—Sherlock worked hard to play the part of Alan, the toothsome massage therapist who was gaining quite a bit of popularity with spa clients and employees alike. 

He didn’t bother to look at the bed’s occupant. _Seen one person whose naked back he would soon be intimately acquainted with, seen ‘em all_ , as he’d taken to saying each day as he talked himself into returning to this hellhole.

Victoria was busy talking about something or other. Sherlock listened to no more than the inflections of her voice to determine how he should respond. Fortunately, she was quite enjoying listening to herself speak, so all he had to do was make some mutters of acknowledgment.

Finally, though, he decided he should get this over with, and he requested the heretofore-silent client’s paperwork.

Victoria explained what he’d be doing as she handed her clipboard to him. He nodded in understanding as he took the papers.

Client’s appreciated being talked _to,_ not _about_  he was learning, so he flipped the papers around so he could find out what he should be calling this particular woman. It was one of the rare occasions where he didn’t read faster than he spoke, and was he sorry.

“And her name is Molly….” He dribbled off on the ‘y’, not even able to utter her surname.

No.

Just _no_.

Not possible.

But he decided to put his fears to rest and turned toward the bed.

_Damn it._

She was lying on the bed, her head tipped so far back that her forehead nearly touched the pillow beneath her.

When his eyes locked with hers, she managed a weak smile and tried for a baffled shrug, but it really looked more like a spasm than anything else.

She appeared to be even more discomfited than he. Which was probably not that surprising, since at least _he_ wasn’t naked but for a sheet.

So _this_ is what it felt like to be on the other side of the sheet-draped dishabille, he thought to himself.  Although, he doubted his last foray into sheet-wearing was anywhere near as intriguing to the other men at Buckingham Palace as Molly’s was to him, now.

Victoria seemed to notice his sudden silence and piped up.

“Is there a problem, Alan?”

Sherlock broke his eye contact with Molly and smiled perfunctorily at the other woman, relieved to see she had her back to them.

“No, nothing of the sort. I just got distracted reading through her medical history. Looking for any contraindications that might make this a _really bad idea._ ”

He couldn’t help the pointed glare at Molly as he spoke those last few words with more emphasis than he had hope for in his attempted nonchalance.

Molly remained silent, though she shot him a sardonic look that said, “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, Genius?”

“Oh, yeah, I always check that when I’m about to start a facial. It’s really good to be safe, isn’t it?” Victoria replied, glancing back at him, attempting a wizened, haunted look. Sherlock doubted she’d seen anything more traumatic than an ingrown hair in her twenty-three years of life.

He didn’t bother responding. He just set the clipboard down with a slap on the counter by the sink and began opening cabinets, looking for the massage oil. Once he found it, he yanked it from its shelf and set it down (perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary) on the rolling cart by Molly’s head.

It was only then that he approached the bed. He sucked in a bolstering breath through his nose and looked back down on Molly’s prone form.

She’d followed his movements and finally lowered her head back into a natural recumbent position when he arrived at the bedside. Her eyes were dark pools in the dim lighting, and the only indication he could now detect of the confusion she was feeling was her white-knuckled grip on her covers.

He reached for a corner of the sheet and finally spoke directly to Molly.

“I’m—“ his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to lift the sheet at such an angle as to preserve your modesty, ma’am. Once I do, please roll onto your stomach.”

Molly gave a violent shake of her head and kept her death grip on the sheet.

Sherlock reached down and began prying her fingers loose, all the while watching Victoria to make she wasn’t witnessing this spectacle.

The woman on the bed gave an angry huff of air and batted his hands away from hers, but let go of the sheet.

Sherlock had turned the skill of sheet-holding/client rolling into an art. After he’d seen enough bare buttocks to last him a lifetime in a few short hours on the job, it had become necessary. While the body might be transport, Sherlock wasn’t keen on having that level of intimacy with random strangers.

Not that he’d necessarily mind seeing Molly’s. But all signs pointed to her minding very much at present.

Once she was situated face-down on the bed, Sherlock busied himself neatening the sheet around her shoulders, hoping that Victoria would leave so that he and Molly could have a conversation that was overdue from the start.

No such luck. Apparently Victoria had decided she should stick around and do inventory of the skincare items stored in the cabinets.

Sherlock tried to meet Molly’s eyes to send her look that said this was harder for him than it was for her (even though it _probably_ wasn’t. But he didn’t want her to know that). But she was now in a phase of denial or anger that included refusing to meet his gaze.

“Right. Well. We’ll just begin… to… begin.”

_Oh, you astounding wordsmith, Holmes_ , he chastised himself.

When he only received a sullen shrug from Molly, he folded sheet back. Once he had it settled low across her hips, he reached up and pushed her thick hair to the side. She jerked at his touch. If just the brush of his fingers on the nape of her neck made her jump, this was not going to end well.

He cleared his throat again and reached for the bottle of oil. After he’d pumped a puddle of it into his palm, he rubbed his hands together to warm the oil, much longer than necessary. All the while he stared beadily at Victoria, willing her to _just leave, damn it_ with the power of his mind.

Unfortunately, telepathy had never been his strong suit; especially because it didn’t exist.

Sherlock looked back down at the smooth, pale expanse of Molly’s back. He briefly admired the sacroiliac joint dimples on her lower back before snapping his eyes away to the far more neutral region of her scapulae.

Although, they had a rather pleasing morphology to them, too.

_Hell_.

Finally, his gaze fixed on the white of the sheets just beyond her lower ribs, Sherlock could put it off no longer. He lowered his hands to Molly’s back.

He began tentatively patting the oil onto her skin using just his fingertips, keeping them safely in the mid-thoracic region of her spine.

_See?_ He told himself, _this isn’t so bad. This is do-able._

Never mind the fact that in any other massage he would just immediately start in with a  firm rubdown of the client’s entire back. But why quibble?

Sherlock continued with his light patting for a couple of minutes until he realized Victoria had turned and was watching him with a baffled look on her face.

“What massage technique is _that_?”

He blinked back at her, momentarily at a loss. Just before he obfuscated with a crushing deduction of Victoria’s person, Molly spoke, her voice muffled as she spoke against her pillow.

“He was feeling my rib protrusions. They’re rather pronounced. He was probably worried that they might be on the verge of dislocation. Don’t fret  Alan. They’re sturdy.”

Sherlock only missed a half beat before he responded.

“Exactly my concern. There was no mention of brittle bones or weak cartilage on your medical form, but one never can be too sure.”

Victoria peered at Molly, probably trying to see these protruding ribs, but she finally gave up and accepted their excuse. She turned back to the counter, the horrid flute music once again the only sound. But Sherlock’s “technique” had caught her curiosity, so she kept glancing back their way.

That effectively put an end to the patting. Now what?

Sherlock managed to avoid sighing out loud at the futility of the situation.

Throwing his caution to the pan flutes, he placed the full span of both hands on Molly’s back and began firmly massaging her skin.

She immediately tensed up.

Glancing at her face, Sherlock saw that her eyes were as wide as saucers and a bright blush was starting to color her skin.

All of her skin.

While he had, on many occasions, seen Molly blush because of something he’d said or done, this was the first time he’d seen said blush on anything other than her face, ears, and neck.

It was… well, it was enthralling.

Sherlock studied the way her blood was pushed away with the pressure of his palms and fingers, leaving her skin an even paler alabaster, only to rush back even pinker than before when he moved to a different area.

The tension that had frozen her when he first touched her wasn’t necessarily abating, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced that it was necessarily the result of stress now. It was more like she was waiting to see what he would do next—where his hands would go.

Fortunately, he thought that was only obvious because he could feel it with his hands.

He also noticed that Molly’s breathing had quickened. He could feel her heart hammering against his left palm each time he pushed in with heel of his hand.

These observations kept him entertained for some time and he felt a flicker in his stomach as he watched her eyes slide shut.

Movement out of the corner of his eye had him looking up, not without regret as he saw Molly’s eye’s snap back open, too.

Victoria was heading to the door. She sent a coy smile Sherlock’s way, and said, rather loudly in what was supposed to be a time of relaxation for the client, “Don’t you worry, Handsome. I just need to get some refills of supplies from the closet down the hall, then I’ll be right back.”

“Alan” would have given a rakish smile in response. Sherlock was feeling a little too much whiplash by the events of the last fifteen minutes to do anything other than scowl. But Victoria had flitted out of the room too quickly to notice his expression.

The minute the door swung shut behind her, Sherlock grabbed Molly’s arms, quickly but gently manipulating them so that they were bent with her hands resting by the sides of her head.

Under the guise of leaning across her body so that he could massage her left bicep, Sherlock bent low and urgently whispered against her ear, “What are you doing here?”

Molly turned her head even further to the side so she could see his face, causing Sherlock’s nose to bump against her cheekbone.

“What am I—What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m on a case, obviously,” he hissed. “How did you find me? Did Mycroft send you?”

Molly actually had to gall to whisper-laugh, albeit mirthlessly.

“Oh, yes, your brother sent a _pathologist_ to do reconnaissance at a day spa. He asked me to guard you now that you’ve apparently lost your mind. He was worried you’d get talked into getting laser hair removal or Botox and thought I could act as your conscience.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Molly.”

“Whereas it makes you look like a prince among men. Oh, no. My mistake. It makes you look like a clod.”

Sherlock was pretty sure the flush on her skin was no longer the result of his ministrations. It looked decidedly angrier, and only worsened as she continued.

“I came to this land of nightmare fuel, for your information, because I had no choice. My friend dragged me here. Contrary to what you seem to think, I haven’t yet implanted a homing device in your hip, so I actually had no idea you would be here playing ‘Fabio the Masseuse.’”

“ _Masseur_. Masseur is masculine.”

“Whatever!”

It was the strangest argument Sherlock had ever had.  They had never raised their voices above a low whisper, his lips were continually brushed the shell of her ear, and while they volleyed back and forth, Sherlock was still stroking his hands across Molly’s skin.

“It’s terribly inconvenient that you’re here, Molly, but we’re just going to have to make do. I don’t think you’ve stumbled into a dangerous situation, but just one wrong word on your part and it could turn that way. So follow my lead.”

Molly snorted indelicately.

“Oh, because so far you’ve been the picture of grace under fire. Who lightly pats someone’s back and calls it a massage? How you’ve managed to go unnoticed until now is beyond me. Is this how you’ve treated all the people unfortunate enough to be subjected to your Hands of Glory?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t notice you complaining too much once we got over that initial awkwardness, Dr. Hooper. “

“It would have been more obvious if I’d started complaining that your technique was found wanting,” she sniffed.

Sherlock really needed to curb his competitive edge. And that was what he told himself was causing his own blood to shift. Competition. Not the soft skin that he was running his hands over, or her fast breaths, which he could now feel against his face in their current proximity.

“I can hear that yammering technician coming down the hall. When she’s back in here, I’ll have to resume employing my pitiful technique. Then we’ll see who’s left _wanting_.”

On that pronouncement, Sherlock straightened just as the door opened again and Victoria strode back in, carrying a box full of various bottles and sprays.

Sherlock offered her a bland smile as he resumed massaging Molly’s back in earnest.

With a smirk, Sherlock decided it was time to move away from her upper back.

He worked his hands down past her ribcage to where her waist nipped in and let his fingers squeeze where he’d learned a lot of people were ticklish. Molly was no exception. She nearly jumped off of the table, but managed to stop before she exposed her front side.

She settled back in with a glare over her shoulder.

Sherlock feigned a yawn.

Then he continued with his defensive massaging (yes, he may be the one taking all the action in this battle, but it was all Molly’s fault that he was having to. Thus: she was on the offensive).

He placed his thumbs in those delightful lower back dimples of hers and let his other fingers curl lightly around her hips as he rubbed his thumbs in small circles.

Molly’s hands once again tightened into fists, and her eyes narrowed angrily, as if she were fighting something.

_Fighting her enjoyment this,_ Sherlock thought triumphantly.

Sherlock hoped Molly never told a living soul about this day. But, damn, was he good.  That stood to reason. He was good at everything.  But somehow, he’d never had such primal satisfaction in job well done before today—before the last half hour.

Just as he was letting the tips of his fingers dance just the tiniest bit under the edge of the fold of the sheet, enjoying the even softer skin her encountered there, the door was thrown open.

In its frame stood an immaculately dressed man holding a huge gun.

Somehow, Sherlock refrained from making a joke about size insecurity.

But it was close.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring escape, a disapproving older brother, and a staring match.

Molly had Victoria pegged for a ninny within a few short minutes after meeting her. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that the minute the dapper gunman burst into the room, the esthetician let loose a rather shrill scream.  Still, it was a bit startling just how much volume she achieved, and Molly could feel her eardrums ringing even after Victoria’s shriek had subsided.

Molly couldn’t say she necessarily _blamed_ the younger woman for being scared. It wasn’t often one found her self being held at gunpoint, particularly in a day spa. The whole point of such a facility was to calm inner turmoil. It was like a Buddhist temple, but with mud baths instead of meditation.

Later, Molly would wonder at her own calm façade during that time. No, her own lack of _any_ kind of reaction.

Inside, though, she was musing on the unfairness of life.

 _So,_ she thought to herself, _this is how I die. It figures._

She’d always hoped that, if she were doomed to die young, she would at least die doing something worthwhile. Diving into the road to save a runaway baby pram, or fighting off a random madman in the morgue with just a bone saw to defend her self.

She’d also pictured Sherlock—rage in his eyes as he tossed a single, white rose down into her grave—cursing the world for taking her away before he could tell her his true feelings.

She may have had a bit too much time to imagine these things during quieter shifts at the hospital.

But no. _Of course_ her death would come when she was lying naked on a table, slicked up with oil. Naked, oiled (and not in an even remotely sexy way), lying on a table, with the man with whom she was hopelessly in love there to bear witness.

Not to mention, her face still hurt from that extractor.

She wondered if Greg Lestrade would be the one unlucky enough to be called to what was sure to be a grisly scene. Hopefully, he would work hard to preserve her dignity in death and see to it that a sheet covered her body as it was wheeled out of the building.

Well, he could try, but the oil coating her back would probably prove too great a lubricant for the plastic sheets used at murder scenes. It would slip right off. Her last act before she was hauled off to her own morgue would be to give a posthumous anatomy lesson to any pedestrians in the vicinity, she thought gloomily.

All of these thoughts occurred to Molly within a matter of seconds. She snapped out of her stupor, though, when she remembered the bottle of astringent sitting on the rolling tray by her head, next to that damned massage oil.

She glanced at the gunman, whose eyes were currently locked on Sherlock. He was too busy demanding that “Alan” return the files he’d stolen, “ _Or else,”_ so he didn’t even notice Molly snaking her arm over to the bottle and grabbing it right out from under his nose.

It really was small room.

Using her hair as a curtain, Molly unscrewed the bottle’s cap under her chin. Subterfuge forced her to hold the astringent a low enough angle that several milliliters of the liquid spilled out onto the pillow. It ran down her chest, momentarily chilling her skin as the alcohol content evaporated on contact. Fortunately, the bottle was still quite full in spite of it all.

Deciding she needed to act sooner rather than later, Molly moved quickly, and with as much force as she could muster while lying on her stomach, she swung the open bottle toward the gunman. A large splash of astringent slopped out and hit him squarely in the face.

Fortunately, it proved adequate. The second it made contact with his eyes, he let loose a loud shriek of his own and threw his hands up to try to soothe what must have been quite a burn.

Unfortunately, he was still holding the gun, and he’d ignored the first tenet of gun safety and had his finger resting on the trigger. When he jerked his hands up to his eyes, he reflexively squeezed it.

The handgun firing in such close proximity left Molly’s poor ears ringing, making her long for Victoria’s screams (though, Victoria was doing that again, as well, which didn’t help).

She registered a sharp, stinging, burning sensation in her shoulder, and she wondered if she’d been shot. As she took stock of her overall condition, she thought to herself, _Well,_ that _could have felt much worse_.

Just then, however, tiny bits of sheetrock raining down had her looking up. A perfect, round bullet hole was situated right next to the room’s light fixture.

Glancing down, Molly realized that the bullet’s casing was what must have hit her, as it now lay harmlessly on the ground by the bed.

She was vaguely aware of Sherlock tackling the man to the ground, but her gaze was fixed on that casing, and the gun that suddenly landed next to it, miraculously not firing again on impact.

**…**

Sherlock had only seen David Branley, Spa Owner and Moriarty Employee Extraordinaire, on one other occasion, and only very briefly.

On his first day at the spa, he’d been trying desperately to maintain his own cover as he was forced to sit through new hire orientation. Of all the times Sherlock Holmes had been bored, this was probably the worst.

As he watched an instructional video on how not to sexually harass someone (the video’s advise: be a decent human being), the door to the Team Training Room—Sherlock had nearly revealed his true colors just upon hearing the word “Team,” but managed to quell his derisive snort —had opened and Branley entered with a horde of simpering sycophants nipping at his heels.

He had the type of smarmy, self-satisfied grin that Sherlock often considered to be an admission of guilt in and of itself, and Branley was clearly well aware of his own rugged, good looks. Though, Sherlock considered, ruggedness was probably cancelled out when the owner of such a quality wore a designer suit and paid someone to groom him on a semi-daily basis. Whatever the case, Branley was well-coiffed, well-suited, and he knew it. He soaked up the attention and gave an air of doing his minions a great favor by even agreeing to be in their company.

Sherlock’s trainer had jumped from her seat the minute the group entered the room, then shot a meaningful look at Sherlock to say that he should follow suit. He struggled to keep his internal monologue _internal_ , as he pondered the fact that Branley apparently dictated that his employees treat him as monarch in this little Micro-Kingdom of Spa.

Branley had noticed the two people rising from the table and shot them a charming wink as he spoke.

“Don’t let us interrupt you. We’re just passing through to the storeroom to look at the new _Dermalogique_ line that arrived this morning.  We wouldn’t want to disturb anything important.”

All of the hangers-on around Branley tittered as if he’s said something funny. Sherlock almost had to physically reach up and use his fingers to keep his forehead from wrinkling in dismay at their idiocy.

The minute the group passed through the door on the other side of the conference room, Orla, his trainer, had whirled around with a flustered look on her face.

“That was David Branley. The owner of this spa! Did my hair look okay? He’s pretty strict about that kind of thing….”

Sherlock had taken her distress as an opportunity to practice his assumed persona, and he’d put a comforting hand on her shoulder (inwardly cringing) and told her she looked fetching.

It had done the trick, and she’d immediately warmed to “Alan.”

After that, Sherlock was only able to get piecemeal information about the owner of the spa from his employees.  Branley had them believing that his success was the result of hard work; a triumphal story of a small-town boy who’d dared to dream big. 

As a result, the spa employees regarded him with awe, speaking his name with hushed reverence. It was disgusting and cloying.

Not able to count on any of his coworkers to provide damning information about Branley, Sherlock had resorted to a cloak and dagger method of information gathering. He’d started sneaking onto various computers when employees were otherwise distracted, and copying information over onto a USB thumb drive.

He thought he’d been pretty damn sneaky.

Now, Branley’s presence in the tiny treatment room (not to mention the gun he was currently aiming at Sherlock) would indicate that Sherlock hadn’t been as successful as he’d previously thought.

It all happened rather quickly.

The minute Branley burst into the room, Victoria had started screaming shrilly. Sherlock tried asking her nicely to, “Do shut up, please,” but she did not comply.

 Molly, meanwhile, was lying frozen on the treatment table, either hoping Branley wouldn’t notice her if she didn’t move, or plotting. It was hard to tell with her.

So, speaking over Victoria, Sherlock calmly addressed the other man.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Branley? That gun you’re holding is completely unnecessary.”

Branley only tightened his grip on the gun, clearly not completely at ease with a firearm.

Oh, good. An armed idiot.

Sherlock tried again.

“Is there a reason why you’re aiming a gun at me, or is this a new spa treatment? I can’t say I care for it.”

The man finally responded, ignoring his unsteady arm as he glared at Sherlock.

“I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing. But you had better give me back my fucking files, or you’ll be in for a whole world of hurt.”

‘A whole world of hurt’? Really, it was too much. Like they’d somehow been transplanted into a mafia film. But Sherlock didn’t feel like laughing just yet. 

He tried for ignorance.

“The name’s Alan McKenna. I’m the new massage therapist, here to replace Eric Stromquist. You remember Eric, don’t you? As for what I’m doing, clearly I am giving this client a massage, and you’re terrifying her. Maybe not the best business practice ever.”

Perhaps reminding an armed man of a person whose disappearance he may or may not have been responsible for was not the _best_ idea ever. Neither was following that reminder up with criticism of how he was handling his business. But Sherlock was multitasking. Victoria had quit her shrieking, but was now just whimpering in the corner, and Molly still was showing no reaction.  Someone had to get them out of this situation.

It was a long shot, and proved futile. Branley neither lowered his gun, nor lost the crazed gleam in his eye.

An _unstable_ , armed idiot. This just kept getting better and better.

“Bullshit. You’ve been systematically copying files off of our computers. I don’t know if you’re with the competition, or are some kind of embezzler, but you picked the wrong man to mess with. I will make you wish you’d never entered the world, let alone my business’ doors.”

As Branley kept up his threats, a slight movement from Molly surprised Sherlock. He avoided looking down, not wanting to draw attention to her, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her arm moving toward the rolling cart that housed facial supplies and his massage oil.

Branley showed no sign of noticing Molly, who, as ever, proved herself invaluable in the art of being unnoticed and underestimated. She grabbed something and then carefully settled back into her original position on the bed, though Sherlock could tell she was now shielding something under her body.

Just as the angry, well-dressed gentleman began shouting, spitting in his anger at Sherlock’s failure to comply with his demands, Molly made a sharp, sudden movement. Sherlock initially couldn’t see what she was holding, but then the sharp scent of alcohol filled his nose, and he realized she’d found the astringent.

The majority of the liquid hit Branley’s face, and he emitted a pained shriek. His hands flew up to rub at his eyes, and he’d clearly already forgotten he was clutching a huge gun. Clutching a huge gun, and had left his finger on its trigger.

It fired, and the force of its recoil had the body of weapon it hitting Branley sharply in his already-stinging right. eye.

Things really couldn’t have turned to Sherlock’s favor in a better way.  

He raced around the foot of the bed and tackled Branley to the ground.

Sherlock was aware of the gun clattering to the ground somewhere behind him, but he was too busy making sure the idiot was immobilized to find out where it had landed.

Just as he realized that Branley had either knocked himself out when the recoiling gun hit him, or fainted when Sherlock had overtaken him, he heard his name called. He looked up from the unconscious man to find Molly sitting on the edge of the bed holding out the gun to him, a look of distaste on her face for even having to hold the offensive item.

Sherlock stared at her for a beat, then popped up off of the floor and took it from her.

“Right,” he said, “I think it would be prudent for us to run now.”

He turned toward the room’s entrance (now just a splintered door frame), hesitated, and then turned back to Molly.

“Also, you might want to wrap up in the sheet before we leave this room,” he said, feeling a tiny flicker of regret.

Molly froze and then slowly looked down, clearly only just realizing that she was flashing her… all of her… at Sherlock.  In her scramble to get the gun, she’d apparently forgotten that she was the exact opposite of clothed.

That she could still expend the effort to blush in such a dire situation baffled Sherlock. But to each her own, he supposed.

She frantically wrapped the large sheet around herself, made sure its corner was tucked securely into the edge to secure it, and then looked back up at Sherlock. She pursed his lips and gave a single, matter-of-fact nod and said, “Let’s go.”

He made sure the safety was back on the gun, grabbed Molly’s right hand with his left, helped her skirt around Branley’s still-unconscious form on the floor, and then they took off at a run.

Her shorter legs meant Sherlock had to adjust his stride so much that he felt like they were crawling. Molly, however, looked like she was sprinting as fast as she could, so he didn’t comment.

They were only a few yards down the hallway, which was still quiet and empty despite the recent gunfire, when they heard someone coming up behind them. Sherlock whirled around, ready to flick the safety back off of the gun, when he realized it was only Victoria.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she gasped. “What was that all about? Why was Mr. Branley shooting at us? Why did you splash him with astringent, Margie?”

Molly didn’t correct Victoria on the name. Good for her.

Victoria continued without pausing for breath, “Are you a bad guy? Do you two know each other? Where are we going? Should we call the police?”

Though Sherlock had lost his patience before she finished her ‘Oh my gods’ and didn’t feel remotely inclined to answer most of her questions, he did leap at one opportunity presented to him to do some damage control, however small.

“No, we don’t know each other. I just decided we should all get out of there. Now, I think we should split up and hide until help arrives.”

Opening the door to the supply cupboard they’d stopped next to, he quickly ushered the esthetician into the small space.

“Victoria, you go in here. Don’t make a sound and don’t leave until the police give you the all-clear. I’ll find a hiding place for Margie next.”

Without waiting for her reply, he slammed the door shut, regained his grip on Molly’s hand, and started running again.

“Sherlock,” Molly hissed, “You can’t just leave her in there. What if that man finds her?”

“She’s not in any danger. Branley was down for the count, anyway, and if by some miracle he does give chase and then finds her, she’ll just explain that I stashed her in there.”

Molly seemed to accept this logic and kept up his pace as they continued to run down the hallway.

But then Sherlock paused and looked down at Molly. He was starting to realize something. Something he _really_ wished he needn’t have realized.

“Molly, I think I really _do_ need to find a hiding place for you and leave you here. I don’t want the spa employees to have any reason to think link us to each other.”

She opened her mouth, clearly to argue. He cut her off before she could speak.

“I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t positive that this is the best move. I do not want your name on any of this.”

He opened the door to a dark, empty treatment room and ushered Molly inside.

“There are cordless phones in these rooms. They’re usually on charging cradles in the large corner cabinets. Dial 999. I hear sirens already, but you need to cover your tracks. Try to sound as frantic and scared as possible.  Say the only reason you went with me was because Branley fired his gun and it frightened you. When you describe me to the police, try to slightly change as many small details as you can; age, height, weight. Your description will have more preponderance due to your job.

“When the police release you after questioning, go directly to your flat. Don’t talk to anyone else, and don’t stop for anything.”

Molly stared at him silently for a moment, and then nodded resignedly.

As he started to pull the door shut, he heard her whisper, “Please be careful.”

He didn’t respond. He just made sure the door was shut firmly behind him and then he bolted for the nearest fire escape, located just around the corner from Molly’s hiding spot.

Sherlock skipped whole steps as he raced down flights of stairs. He finally burst through the heavy fire door on the ground floor and found himself in a dank alley.

A wintery mix of rain and snow was falling from the dim, evening sky, and, now outside, the sound of sirens approaching was a loud cacophony.

He was weighing which way to run when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the gun and whirled around to the intruder, only to realize it was Mycroft Holmes, standing under his ubiquitous umbrella, a put-upon expression on his face.

Though, that seemed to be his resting expression, at least when regarding his younger brother.

“You know, security cameras can be funny things. How they tape video footage. For _security._ It’s also funny how most businesses have them installed in hallways, fire escapes, and, oh yes, in front reception areas, where the receptionist’s computer is so readily available. Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you _wanted_ to be seen stealing those files.”

While he spoke, he idly lit a cigarette and took a few ponderous puffs before he lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock, clearly waiting for a rejoinder.

“Is now really the time to have this conversation, Mycroft? I think time would be better getting me away. I know _you_ didn’t walk here. Where’s your car?”

Mycroft nodded his head to something behind Sherlock. When he turned around, he saw a sleek, black vehicle pull away from the wall, where it had been obscured by a large, industrial-size dumpster.

Once the two men were seated on the plush, leather upholstery of the car’s back seat, the vehicle took off at a quick clip, turning out on to the main road and blending with the busy, end-of-day traffic.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, waiting to see if he was done with his haranguing. When his older brother remained silent, doing little else but spinning his now-closed umbrella on its pointed end, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Apparently, it was up to him now.

“So, you’ve been monitoring me?”

Mycroft snorted indelicately, but otherwise remained silent.

“Am I to take it, then, that you’ve wiped me from the spa’s security footage?”

The Holmes boys had perfected facetious flippancy at a young age. So Sherlock didn’t read too much into it when Mycroft replied, “No, I decided to see if you could tap dance your way out of this. Imagine the _Daily Mail_ ’s write-up on your new life as a masseuse.”

“Masseur.”

“Oh, no, I meant what I said.”

Sherlock sighed then stared sullenly out of his window.

But Mycroft wasn’t done, yet.

“Just so your little exercise isn’t for naught, do you want to pass on the data you’ve so _carefully_ collected?”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft as he dug in his trouser pocket, fishing out the memory stick. It wasn’t without a large dose of resentment that he handed it over.

His brother put the thumb drive in his waistcoat pocket before resuming twirling his umbrella.

“It should be short work getting this processed. I doubt David Branley will have even been bailed out after his foray into assault with a deadly weapon, before the authorities can move forward with other, more interesting charges.”

Sherlock _could_ have thanked Mycroft. But why would he?

The rest of their car ride was conducted in silence, until they finally came to a stop outside of a residential building in a quiet Southwark neighborhood.

Sherlock nodded at his brother, then opened the car door. As he climbed out, Myrcoft’s languid voice had him turning back around.

“I do have one question, Sherlock.”

The younger Holmes cocked his eyebrow in waiting.

“How on Earth did you convince Dr. Hooper that a bed sheet was haute couture for crime fighting?”

Sherlock slammed the car door and stomped away.

…

Three hours after Sherlock Holmes had left her in a dark room wearing nothing but a sheet, Molly dragged herself into her flat.

As was her habit, the moment she opened her front door, she hung her keys on the little hook she’d installed right by the door frame.  She set her purse on the tiny entryway table beneath that hook. She closed the door and locked it.

And then she started knocking her forehead repeatedly against its hard wood.

Not with concussive force or anything. But hard enough that it momentarily provided a nice change of pace from the dull pressure currently making itself known throughout her skull.

Finally, Molly petered out and just stood there with her brow pressed against the cool wood (or wood veneer) of the door.

She allowed herself one self-pitying groan. But only one.

A deep voice coming from the dark of her sitting room startled her.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Molly’s head dropped back heavily, directing her gaze to her ceiling. She idly glared at the popcorn texture that probably meant she was inhaling large amounts of asbestos on a daily basis. She’d asked her super to fix that, but, apparently, he needed a royal decree to accomplish anything.

Finally, she turned to face into the room, easily spotting Sherlock’s shadowed form sprawled on the sofa. A pair of glowing eyes indicated that her cat was currently sitting on the man’s chest.

“Oh, believe me, it was worse. Tell me, Sherlock. If you were to guess how long it was that I had to stay in that cold, dark room before the authorities came and fetched me, what would you say?” she asked as she unzipped her rain-sodden jacket.

Sherlock glared back at her. 

“I don’t play guessing games.”

Molly laughed, somewhat dourly.

“Oh, come on. Humor me.”

Sherlock hadn’t moved yet, but she could see his chest (and the cat) rise and fall as he heaved a sigh.

“Fine, then. Fifteen minutes?”

“Nope.” She let the ‘p’ really pop.

“Twenty? I barely beat the police, so it couldn’t have been much longer than that.”

Molly just shook her head.

“This is boring. Just tell me.”

“Forty-five minutes, Sherlock. I was in that room for forty-five minutes. And then they weren’t convinced that I wasn’t harboring a dangerous criminal in the folds of my sheet. So when they finally burst into that room, following _my_ helpful directions over the phone, by the way—the emergency dispatcher patched me through to the site coordinator—they were wearing full ballistic gear. They had sniper rifles sighted on me. It took me five minutes to convince them that I was unarmed and alone.

“And _then_ , the D.I. on scene wouldn’t let me get dressed. She insisted that I might change my story in the five minutes it took me to pull on my own clothes. Maybe it didn’t help that I pointed out that I’d had forty-five bloody minutes to come up with a story, so her point was moot. Whatever the case, I had to give three different people my statement while I was covered nothing but a thin, white sheet.  I was cold, tired, and just wanted to come home. And my friend had left ages ago, so our ‘Girls’ Day’ was a bust, anyway. _I didn’t have to be there_.”

Sherlock just stared at her for several seconds after she’d wound down her impassioned speech before he lifted the cat off of his chest and stood. He sauntered over until there was only a half a meter between them. It was only then that he spoke again.

“Are you saying this was all somehow my fault?”

 “Well, that gunman certainly didn’t burst in the room because he’d decided my large pores were a capital offense. I paid my dues for those with that demonic blackhead remover.” 

Molly was not a confrontational person, but she steeled herself and continued.

“I was minding my own business, trying to pretend I was enjoying having you slather oil all over my back, and he came bursting in, looking for _you._ ” She poked his chest for emphasis, a flustered blush beginning to suffuse her cheeks.

“Yes, but I hardly had any control over the fact that you decided to do something completely out of character and go to a day spa to begin with,” he huffed. “You’ll remember that I was there first.”

Molly actually guffawed, then replied, “Oh, we’re getting proprietary over whose idea it was to be in that hell _first?_ By all means Sherlock. That honor is all yours. But let’s also remember who went there _willingly_. I believe that distinction goes to you, as well.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you, I was on a case. I was undercover, unearthing a money laundering scheme tied back to Moriarty, and I was successful in my efforts.”

He strode away from her, the strode back just as quickly.

“And there was no _pretending_ going on, enjoyment-wise. You seem to forget that I was touching your naked skin. I felt your heartbeat fluttering away like a little, flitty bird. My hands excited you, Molly Hooper.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He narrowed his back. 

Neither Molly nor Sherlock could identify who moved first. All they knew was that, one second they were glaring at each other, each trying to out-menace the other, and the next, they were in each others’ arms, their mouths meeting in a furious kiss.

Fingers were tangling in hair, noses were rubbing against each other, lips and teeth were nipping, and their bodies were as flush together as their clothing would allow. Someone _may_ have moaned (Sherlock was certain it was not he…. Maybe).

He decided that he would address the slight discomfort of holding Molly while she wore her cold, sodden winter coat. And so, breaking as little contact as he could, Sherlock slid his hands under the neckline of the open coat, pushing if off of her shoulders and down her arms while he let his hands slide over those lovely scapulae of hers.

Molly’s quick hiss of surprise was enough to break the spell, though.

Sherlock jerked his head back and peered down at her.

“What? Did I—“ He was surprisingly winded. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. I’ve just got a small cut on my back. The bullet casing hit me when Branley fired his gun. It’s nothing serious.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to drag his mouth back down to her kiss-swollen lips, but he resisted.

“Let me see it,” he demanded.

“Maybe later.”

Something told him that making further demands of Molly wouldn’t get him anywhere, if the way the night had gone so far was any indication. So he tried a different tack.

“Would you just… do this for me? I’ll… worry otherwise.”

Molly lowered back down off her tiptoes and stared up at him for a quiet moment before she nodded.

Given that Sherlock had seen more of her in the past several hours than any man had in the past three years combined (besides her gynecologist, but, _somehow_ , that was different), it was rather easy for Molly to shrug out of her thick, cable knit sweater, leaving her upper-half clad only her white cotton bra.

Sherlock, romantic fool that he was, perfunctorily turned Molly around to look at her minor injury. If she didn’t still feel the burning around her mouth from his slight stubble, she might have wondered if she’d imagined kissing him a few short moments before.

He led her over to the sofa and, once she was seated, flicked on a lamp sitting on an end table.

He brushed his fingers around the scratch, not touching the swollen skin. She was right; it wasn’t serious at all. But it was a bit deep and needed to be cleaned.

“The heat of the casing burned you, too, but not badly. Still, it will be quite tender with the cut under it.”

Molly nodded absently, shivering a bit as her body cooled again in the chilly air of her flat.

“I have a first aid kit in the linen closet in the hall. Bottom shelf,” she directed.

Sherlock quickly fetched it and then seated himself behind her on the sofa. Flicking open the plastic box, he quickly scooped out items he would need.

She jumped a bit when the alcohol swab made contact with the laceration.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he finished wiping up the small streaks of dried blood, feeling an alien twinge for causing her discomfort, however necessary and fleeting it was.

She sent a small smile over her shoulder to show him that the sting had already passed.

Sherlock stared down at the cut as he waited for the alcohol to dry, trying to find his words.

“Molly, I am sorry I put you in danger. I wasn’t trying to be cavalier with your safety. I really thought I’d gotten away with everything until Branley came in the room. It never even occurred to me that I should make up some excuse to get you out of there the minute I saw you lying on that bed.”

Molly turned and cupped his cheek, leaning forward hesitantly to kiss him lightly, still half-expecting to be rebuffed.

“I know. I shouldn’t have acted like you were inept about the whole thing. I’m sorry, too. You’re really rather extraordinary, Sherlock Holmes. And I’m glad you saved me the way you did.”

He rubbed his nose against hers. Molly doubted he was so fanciful as to call what he was doing an Eskimo kiss, but it was a surprisingly sweet gesture, all the same.

But then it seemed to be enough vulnerability for the time being, and he cleared his throat and drew back.

“The antiseptic should be dry now. Let me cover it up.”

He laid a gauze square over the cut and secured it with medical tape, and then busied himself fitting the various supplies back into the first aid kit.

Molly resolved to get the evening onto some lighter footing, and decided to try her hand at some flirtation.

“So, you were doing pretty well with my massage, but I didn’t see or feel nearly enough. What else did you learn?” She flashed him what she hoped was a smoldering look.

Sherlock seemed to think on it before he replied, “Oh, you know, the basic massage techniques. I became rather adept at sports therapy massage, so if you ever have a sprain, be sure to let me…”

He tapered off when he saw Molly’s nonplussed expression.

“Oh…” he said, cottoning on, “Right.”

Molly liked to think that Sherlock Holmes’ ears turning a rather distinct shade of red was something just for her, that no one else had seen.

Though Sherlock never confirmed this, she was quite right.

But at that moment, he felt the need to join her in lightening the mood, and a rather evil gleam entered his eyes as he looked at her.

“I also saw quite a few other interesting treatments while I was in the place whose name we shan’t ever mention again. Things like whole-body exfoliation and moisturizing. Of course, the spa techs were a lot more clinical than we would need to be.”

Molly pretended to consider this as Sherlock mapped her face with his assessing eyes, before he leaned in and danced his lips over one cheekbone, the bridge of her nose, and across the other side of her face. Then, he drew back and  grinned at her.

 “And I saw quite a few facials. In fact, I might be able to get my hands on a blackhead extractor from a drugstore, if you’d be interested.”

“And on that note, I’m going to bed,” Molly said quickly.

She stood and hurried down the hall, but then stopped in the doorway to her bedroom and looked back at him. She raised her eyebrows in unmistakable invitation before she disappeared into the room beyond.

Sherlock felt his lips curve into a rather foreign smile of anticipation before he rose from the sofa and followed Molly Hooper to bed.

**The End**


End file.
